


November Ghosts

by existentialflu (sotakeabitofcalpol)



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I'm back on my bullshit and missing Peter, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, also, more metaphors, so I wrote Morse angst, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/existentialflu
Summary: Peter loves Morse. He hates it.In fairness, it's not easy, and he's not entirely sure it's love
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	November Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> My brain splurged. It's v. angsty. Maybe a bit of a vent fic.

Morse, Peter thinks, is so goddamn fragile. He's fragile and small and so so breakable. He shouldn't be trusted with him, with all his indelicate words and actions and past, not with Morse, not with his hollow bones and wispy feathered hair. Not with this baby bird of a man, trying to fly too soon. Sometimes Peter looks over at him from across the nick and expects wings to grow from razor edge shoulder blades.

The wings'd be twisted, though, too broken to support his flight, crumble like Icarus's had, in the myths he'd secretly loved as a kid, feathers scattered to the wind as he fell. Too close, too soon.

He tries to fling himself anyway, gets stabbed and shot and beaten to shit, falls to the ground and stops reaching for the sun, turns to the burn of whiskey to fill up the cracks in him where there's no warmth, where hunger carves grooves in ribs, cups into his collarbones that could catch the blood that ~~drips~~ pours from another broken nose, the only salt to sneak past his lips in days.

No man balks at a free meal. Morse does. Gift horse truly locked into a staring match. He won't win, but it won't matter. More bruises, blooming sickly, withering violets across his too-thin forearms, joining the bouquet of stab wounds and gunshots that decorate his grave of a body.

Because he should be spring, blossom and youth, new beginnings and dewy grass. He isn't old, yet, it's clear when he lets his guard drop that he's far from it. Yet somehow he's autumn, all hollow mist and near endings. Bones shake with it, too cold, it's always too cold, even though it's warm, even though it's summer, he's got his coat wrapped around him like he'll fall apart if he doesn't, fall among the leaves and mulch, pale skin and hollow eyes. Oh god, if he fell he'd look like a kid's Halloween decoration. His lips ~~and the skeleton far too close under them~~ taste of decay, the sweet taste of rotting fruit and whiskey, second hand smoke ~~even though that's his fault~~ curling around into a shattered mockery of a halo.

But there's more to his fear than just how he could break him. He's scared the boy'll slip through his fingers, sickly porcelain skin sliding oh so easily out of his grasp, out of his life, through the cracks. Thin, hunched shoulders fading into the background, like he does whenever his mouth isn't providing a shallow commentary of his mind. No one ever taught him how to do all this, he whispers through whiskey breath, nobody taught him, he's sorry, he tries, at what Peter just doesn't know. He spent enough time pissed at him in the early days, but the image of alcohol pooling in hollows haunts him. He's far beyond it now.

He knows the point that changed. It involved an alleyway, desperation and drunken lust, pushing their lips together until they bruised, until Morse's bled, pinning the boy up against the wall and feeling his hands almost go through him. He hadn't stopped then; Morse hadn't stopped on his end, and he was half-drunk on the fumes from Morse's mouth, let alone his own. He'd been haunted by it, the next morning, those bones. He went in, neither acted differently, until Morse had shoved him into the evidence room, and he'd let him.

He's in love, and it terrifies him. Because Morse comes home most nights with stitches and bruises, holes in his skin and his heart. Comes home, drowns himself in whiskey ~~whilst he burns himself to death with nicotine. Perfect opposites~~ , gives into his desperation and kisses him till his chewed lips are purple. Turns his music up until it shuts everything out in that head of his. Doesn't sleep, although nobody could ever sleep through the racket he puts on.

One time he falls on the stairs, shatters his wrist, and he's reminded of what he'd thought at first. He comes home too soon, Peter has to hide the whiskey because it'll kill him, with the painkillers he isn't sure his ~~boyfriend? partner? they never talk about this~~ is actually taking. The doctor pulls him aside in the hospital, tells him Morse doesn't have long left the way he's going ~~Icarus. He's always been Icarus~~ , that he'll be the one to convince him, because Morse loves him. He doesn't believe him.

Because he's pretty sure Morse only loves his warmth, where he loves him down to his November ghost.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a sorta PSA; not a healthy relationship
> 
> Basially, my only way of processing things is to project them onto characters. This version is a lot more romantic than the IRL version.
> 
> Also, if Jakes doesn't show up this series I will riot I stan two dumbass trauma bois and I need both back.


End file.
